


Wet Mess

by ghostie_withthemostie



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Aromantic Clint Barton, Cheating, F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 12:45:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7222900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostie_withthemostie/pseuds/ghostie_withthemostie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And you should get out of town, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wet Mess

**Author's Note:**

> In which Clint is aro, but not ace.  
> Sorry about the cheating. Inspiration came from the song Boris by Lo-Fang.

Not an ounce of romance in his heart.

You knew that, had always known that. But he was a _good man._ He had a strong moral code, a set of rules for living. Guiding him between right and wrong.

Apparently, this hadn’t made the list.

He staggered through your front door, beer-sour mouth mashing against your shocked lips.

Seven words, stifling your protest before it could even be articulated:

“I know your boyfriend’s out of town.”

He knew your heart, knew your lack of one. Understood the struggle of faking feeling, of acting contrary to your nature.

His drunk-rough hands also made it clear he understood, most of all, the only form of affection your body knew how to respond to. So you gripped him back and he groaned through his kiss; a shared sentiment.

You made it to the couch, but barely. Harshly spun and shoved over the arm, you moaned when you felt those calloused fingertips push aside the fabric covering your heat. Heard a hiss and then a low chuckle as he discovered the wetness already accumulated in such a short time. You should feel shame. You don’t.

Instead, you push back, force his fingers to sink in to their goal. You feel his heavy hardness pressing to the back of your thigh through his jeans and you want to chuckle as well, to let him know you know his game. That he’s no better than you. But you’re too far gone now.

All you can do is moan his name.

As though he needs goading. As though he needed any further permission to take exactly what he came here to take. Still, he asks. Still, you assent, as you always do. Another formality, another string of words forming a sentence, a question, to which neither of you cares for the meaning behind it. It’s hard to shake these habits, even when both of your know what you want.

And then there’s a _snik_ and a _rustle_ as he frees himself, a shove and a tear, probably your own garments. What else is new? Another secret scrap of silk shoved to the bottom of the trash. He doesn’t even apologize anymore. You’re past that.

And then he thrusts forward, and what is there to apologize for anyway? You scream and he swears, unabashed, unashamed, just two people seeking the only real pleasure they understand.

The pace he sets has you wanting to cum already, _goddamn him_ , he knows, he always knows, the right speed and angle to hit to have you at his mercy. So you lift on your toes, adjust the trajectory so it’s just on the verge of pain. A punishment for the wrongness of all of this. A hurt that you crave.

He might sense this, you’re not sure, but his movements become harsher, harder. Exactly what you need.

Empty words now, no different than other times with other people, but better because you both understand the emptiness.

_Harder. Fuck. Yes. So good. More._

All that really matters. You’re both on the same page here.

One hand on your hip and one on the back of your neck, fingers flexing and squeezing. You shift backward, meeting him thrust for thrust. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

Feet flat again, his pounding thrusts finding that spot inside of you that forces your words to degenerate into wordless shrieks.

“Cum for me,” he grunts.

So you let go, shuddering, his name a sacrament and a curse. He follows not long after, a long, low moan as his forehead presses to the spot between your shoulder blades, thighs twitching, emptying into you. A quiet moment. A silence some might use to occupy with soft kisses, gentle words of love.

You only hold your hand between your legs as he pulls out, catching the inevitable gush of liquid.

He does kiss you, though, once more, open-mouthed and unapologetic before he leaves. There are no words and, therefore, no need to say any. He leaves. And you sleep.

Sated and unfeeling.


End file.
